Category Archives: Rant

ME from the future: Billy, you will probably not publish this. I would like to tell you that its because you have low self esteem, but let’s be honest, its because you don’t know what this post is going to be about. Except now, you have this idea of writing vignettes of people you’re incapable of understanding [*cough* judging *cough*] right now. And here’s the fun bit – some of them may or may not be from college, though they are largely composites of a number of people. You will probably regret this, you coward of a writer, but if Lizzie could post the utter and complete rejection of Darcy, I could do this much, right?

Also, yes. You are doing this entirely because someone on Facebook said they miss your posts. And no, its not because it reminded you that you have to post, or it gave you confidence. It’s because you are entirely driven by your ego and narcissism. Your juvenile need for approval is exposed, Billy. Kindly adjust your clothing. None of us want to see that nasty business.

—

The Girl Who Will Always Be Boring And Doesn’t Know It

She’s always had it all. Her hair falls like Rachel’s; her butt to waist ratio is practically perfect; she can understand complex theories and concepts almost before she encounters them; her boobs are only just short of Jennifer Lawrence, which is as close to perfection as normal people get; Her legs are probably longer than my entire body; she probably has 2 percent body fat; she has the aesthetically pleasing back dimples, the skinny arms that Liz Lemon had nightmares about and no armpit cleavage. In the Photoshop enabled world of today, she may just have gone unfiltered. Probably not, but there was potential. Her face was ok.

But perfection comes for a price. The price in this case, was NOT her ability to know interesting stories or people. She always had something to add to gossip or a non-boring story to tell. She had that. What she didn’t have was the ability to tell any story without making me think of sour milk and cleaning my room. She could bitch about people well enough, but it fell short of entertaining by a mile and skipped right to unnecessarily mean. And mean in a sneaky way. As if she was thinking of ways to be mean without letting people know.

She could run into midgets having sex with a bunch of zebras one day and want to talk about it, and I would still be…

Her inability to interest me does not end there. She will spoil things. She can kill a conversation in the least creative manner – by saying something lame that sadly enunciates two things – her inability to understand the point of a conversation and her inability to say anything interesting. It also does not help that she’s quite the raging dog of a female persuasion – about practically everything but herself. She is…. the least interesting conversant in the world. She doesn’t often drink beer. But when she does, she’ll take shots, because that’s what’s awesome.

Conclusion: Nobody can have it all.

—

They’re Not Greek Gods

Some people have it made. They are practically gods. They have everything most people would be comfortable and even satisfied with. They are as close to gods as life could get in all its dreariness and its uncertainty for mere mortals. They are the gods. I don’t really know how.

But then of course, there are Greek gods. Not Hrithik Roshan or Paul Newman. Zeus and Hades. The Greek gods were very human. In fact, they were sub-human and super-human in their abilities to be utterly human. They could feel passion that made them and the objects of their passion slaves of their loins (and on occasion, their hearts; but mostly, their loins). They could be ascetics beyond what blood flow and biology allows and they could love beyond what poetry tries, although that isn’t very hard. They could be Caligula for all their love of humans – they could call upon whomever they wanted to make the hours go by faster, to make themselves more human. They were not usually refused. If they were, they normally responded by transforming people into trees, like Apollo did to Daphne. Often, even when they weren’t refused, the mortals were transformed into other kinds of objects once they came in contact with the gods. Like Zeus and Callisto, who was transformed into a bear first and into a constellation next. That’s not exactly an object but it is a thing, if nothing else.

Of course, the Greek gods were never condemned for their behavior. It was expected of them. What else are gods supposed to do, if not have their pick of people; and of standards of decency; and of scrutiny? All of which could be molded to suit them. They were gods, and people were supposed to worship them, love them and do anything at all to get in their good books.

And of course, the Greek gods were not real. God itself is not real. And if they were, humans could never pretend to be gods. They could try, but it inevitably meant Tartarus or the continuous eating of one’s innards by an eagle whilst chained atop a mountain over centuries. Which in the real world would mean that if people acted like Greek gods, especially to their friends, they’d usually get a very clear and unmitigated –

Conclusion: Remember girls and boys, David Copperfield thought his school senior Steerforth was magnificent and the epitome of everything golden that could be said of humanity. He really, really wasn’t. He was actually less awesome than most people in the book. He was shitty to his friends, shitty to his girlfriends and died young, fulfilling tenets of poetic justice. That’s not a good sign. He was very human. But not a very good human. And not really worth debasing yourselves over.

—

Too much? I did inform some of the concerned people that this was coming. Let’s face it, I informed the people in the second one. First one is just a fun composite of a number of people I’ve met. Or is it? You’ll never know

Also, I wanted to write a bit more but I haven’t had a very good day. I am very, very pissed. I have literally never been this angry in my life. I can’t even begin to express… And since I refuse to write about why I’m angry because fuck you, that’s why, I can’t really be judgy or sufficiently pissed about anything else.

But just to beat a bunch of haters to the punch (in case there are any out there), here’s a little one talking about a few of my faults.

—

The Girl Who Is Writing This

I always think I’m right. I very rarely am. I’m often cruelly honest to my friends. I have a very high opinion of myself despite having very few parts of my life settled. One of the parts that are not settled – jobs and future plans. Despite this, I am almost always pleased with myself, which I combine with an inane self-loathing that no doubt drives my friends crazy. I have no feelings when it comes to romance. But I care excessively about the friendships I have and try practically everything to preserve them, no matter how much it flat-lines. And I pretend I don’t. My good opinion once lost, is lost for a long fucking time. I am very lazy, and I am never sure if I have enough brain to compensate for that – I very likely don’t. I always analyze and categorize people and inform them of it, while never bothering to do it to myself. People are rightfully pissed about this. I see things from several perspectives and I sit on the fence for most things because they’re not interesting enough to have an opinion about, according to me. As if the shit I do care about is that important – they’re not.

That’s all I can think of now. I don’t want to be too self-involved.

—

On a different note – The Lizzie Bennet Diaries. I have no idea how they made a tongueless kiss that hot, but FUCK ME. Literally, Daniel Vincent Gordh, I request fucking by you. To me. In my private parts.

Perhaps its because of The Great Gatsby, or perhaps its because of certain gatherings of people I have been to recently, wearing clothes that are not mine and which make me very uncomfortable… I was at a party, alright? And I did not particularly want to be there, but there are lots of things I do and places I go to that I don’t want to except for friends. I was at a party, and I was with certain people, and I was talking about some things… and I couldn’t stop thinking about The Great Gatsby and wealth.

I think for sheltered, middle-class to upper middle class twenty-somethings such as me, poverty and hunger and destitution is awful but understandable. It’s something we comprehend and perceive and living in India, we can’t really ignore. But most of the times wealth and consumerism is a little beyond what I can make sense of. I really, honestly don’t understand some of the things said or wanted or owned by people with money. Maybe Oscar Wilde had it right (though he was probably being funny. I never really know. I didn’t do English Honors) and I’m deluding myself into not wanting some things simply because I can’t afford it.

But that doesn’t take away from the fact that rich people puzzle me.

The fact that you are happy about having bought clothes that almost entirely owe its value to how much it costs and how famous its designer is, puzzles me. I don’t understand why it is a thing to have a conversation about. Don’t get me wrong, I understand pretty clothes. I have myself partaken in the joy derived from buying something pretty that you look good in. The awesomeness you feel when you like the body in the mirror while wearing something that makes you feel like you’re in your skin. I understand that joy. But when people buy only the expensive brands, they don’t talk about how good it feels on their skin. They don’t talk about feeling that you won’t forget the day you wore that dress just because you wore that dress, and eating a slice of bread in that dress feels special. They talk about where they bought it from, how much it costs. They talk about the very specific symbol of that dress; the fact that people in the right places will know where it was bought and how much it cost. Nothing about seeing the dress on the hanger and knowing immediately that it was yours and you will forego next month’s allowance in order to have it. The romance seems lost.

The idea that you will eat at expensive places where the portion size is abysmal at best and shell out a grand for it is puzzling to me. That you would dare to eat pizza with a fork is not puzzling, though; that is infuriating. I understand food. I do. I understand expensive food also, but only when they give me my money’s worth. As an (un)established hipster, I know I should complain about Big Chill and so forth in Delhi. But honestly, I don’t have a big problem with Big Chill. The people who go there regularly and talk about it may be the cast of my worst teenage nightmares, but I have no problems with the place itself. I can eat there for about 300 to 400 bucks and have my stomach filled with good food. I won’t have a problem going there once or twice a year. I don’t understand going to Big Chill every month. The fact that you go to Ruby Tuesday to have your weekly gossip session puzzles me. When you go to a coffee shop and spend more than a hundred bucks more than once a month, that puzzles me.

I had a chat with someone recently who informed me that a big ass expensive camera costs less than a Mont Blanc pen. Don’t get me wrong, I knew of the existence of Mont Blanc pens. I had assumed they were like an adult version of Parker pens and the appeal they held when I was in school. It took half a minute before it hit me to ask, actually expecting a correction, because how could a pen ever cost more than a high end camera; any high end camera? It wasn’t possible. Except it was. I was informed by my friend that I had never had a more disgusted look on my face.

Me: What the fuck, is it made out of gold or something?

Friend: It’s Platinum actually. And I’ll buy it some day.

Me: You do realize I can buy a pen for two rupees and it would perform the same function as the one you would buy for more than sixty thousand bucks?

Friend: It’s not about that… God, you have never looked more disgusted in your life.

Me: Sorry… but I am.

The same goes for cars. Unless you plan on being late everywhere and expect empty roads so you can drive as fast as you want, you will get wherever you want to go in a less expensive car; or a bike which does not scream ‘Classic Freudian Compensation’. I understand if you want to buy an expensive electric car or something out of concern for the environment, but other than that, you’re just pointless. And it’s one thing if your conversation or your arguments or your ideas are pointless, but when you spend money I could travel round the world with in order to buy something pointless… you should try not to procreate because clearly, we have enough of you in the world.

When you forego a perfectly safe, faster public transport like the metro in order to drive a car, just because you want a car, and a second hand one will not do despite the fact that you will no doubt wreck it, it puzzles me. I’m sorry. There is a lady’s compartment, which happens to smell really nice, and it gets you most places in about half the time it would take you by car. You are clearly a snob.

And it’s quite alright if you’re a snob. But then don’t pretend it’s about anything but snobbery. Don’t like facebook posts about stuff you don’t care about. Don’t give shitty excuses like “It’s because the car gives you independence.” If you wanted independence, you would be trying to get a job. I admit, I would like to be independent, but I sure as fuck know that the route thereto is not asphalt and fast cars. I need a job first.

Eh… talking about this makes me dumb. Which is why the completely average analysis I had of the book and the life I have been witnessing for the past week, has not really come together cogently in this ‘discussion’. Let me just say, in what pompousness I can muster up – There is an excess of vapidity in some circles in Delhi that I find hard to live with. I don’t mind talking for eons about people, no matter how insignificant; but I have nothing to think or say when you talk about your cars and your clothes and your trips abroad that you spent shopping. The sad part is that not counting a few people, this is all that consumes conversation. Talking is always about things; literal physical things. For me, it’s another version of Zooey Deschanel’s conversation with models in New Girl – “That is a lamp. This is a table. It is very flat.” Clearly, a career as a rich Delhi housewife is not for me, even if I had the qualifications, which I don’t.

I may not post next week. Christmas is the excuse.

—

Embarrassing secrets. I pooped in my pants once in college. I was in my room and I had a cold, and things happened that made me question my life and its meaning. I had always thought that once I get to the point where I pooped myself, I would be reaching for the gin bottle and the sleeping pills. But I had assumed I would be old by then. So I soldiered on, after I spent a day locked up in my room because I was afraid it would happen again, this time in public.

I get hit on by people I really don’t like and it is very bad for my self-esteem. On the internet, at parties… always by people I can’t stand. So on the rare occasions where its people I like, I may or may not secretly get really flustered.

—

I’m trying to stay away from the news because it’s been reported already and we’re now at that stage of news about a tragic incident where a bunch of people give their crazy ass opinions be it on news channels or in Parliament. Then the people who are not crazy retort and thus an hour of television passes by in which no decision is made, and everything is the same. I will say this much – Something is wrong with the world when people affiliated with blaming spicy food or interactions with the opposite sex or blue jeans for rape or any number of insane ideas, actually think and say that castration is their big solution to the problem. There are no words for how far we have fallen and how insane things have become.

—

I’m watching Before Sunrise again. It’s one of the few movies that make me want to fall for someone. It’s the only movie where it seems logically sound that two people should fall for each other.

I know I have something embarrassing to reveal. Technically two embarrassing things because I forgot to mention last time about my hiatus on the jogging out of respect for my unwillingness to get up at 6 AM. But the internal monologue hasn’t been particularly chirpy this last week, so I’m postponing coming up with something embarrassing that I can afford to let people know about till next week. Nothing in the rules prohibit me from such postponement under special circumstances.

Le’s ge’ to it, sha’ we?

—

I remember countless times in the past when I would cheesily point out November rain for being November Rain. It’s not unusual to have a light drizzle in November in Delhi. However, I don’t remember cheesily reminiscing about December rain. Except this time it’s happened. The only time I saw the sun today was once I left the office, when it was a rather weak orange ball of powerful nuclear reactions behind some clouds around the dome of the Supreme Court. On a completely unrelated note, I’m going to start pretending to be British, that I don’t like rain, and write an ode to weather and how it affects our mood. I’m sure it has never been done before.

But today has been one of those weird days when you start out in a pretty bad mood, owed partly to hormones and partly to circumstances, but things conspire to try and get you in a better mood. None of them work completely, but by the end of the day when you’re walking home in the rain with your Kindle (The Great Gatsby), your stomach digesting delicious food, with a purple umbrella, you’re not entirely angry at life. Every now and then, just to keep with the cliché and the weather, you play Singin’ in the Rain in your head and click your heels in mid air. You are not happy, but people will think you’re a crazy person. Some might argue that’s nearly the same thing.

But once you get out of the rain, into the metro station and in the hurry to catch the train, brace yourself and enter the men’s compartment. Brace yourself not because you will get raped. Oh no. Brace yourself because even if there are very few people, so few that there are actually seats to sit on, the place will stink like the depths of a Neanderthal’s asshole. Then all the tiny little details about people that piss you off come right back.

There are people in the world you just cannot like. While in my case, the people who fill this category may be more than with other people, I think it’s safe to say that everyone has a few things they instantly hate, constantly and irrationally hate to the point where you unceasingly fantasize about shooting someone’s face off, quite literally. Personally, in my killing fantasies, especially with people I really dislike, I don’t shoot. I get up close and personal, with poisonous darts or samurai swords. This may seem like a joke, but I assure you I’m not exaggerating. I have very high definition and intense fantasy sequences in my head about killing people. If Tarantino or Nolan or someone could get into my head, I’m sure they would pay me for the rights. I know it’s a surprise to people who are well acquainted with my charming personality but I do dislike some/ most people I come in contact with when around lawyers.

I hate it when someone doesn’t enunciate. When you’re trying to say “proclaimed” and all I hear is “prolvved”, that is not my fault, it’s yours; especially if you’re a full grown human being. And when I ask you to repeat yourself, you are not allowed to be annoyed. Because so help me god, if I am too scared and everyone else around you has been too much of a sycophant to tell you that you sound worse sober than what I sound like when I sleep talk; I will ask you again what on earth you mean by saying “grirrnal prussezur core, prolvved offendr”, and you will reply. Slowly and enunciating at least every other syllable. If you passed the bar, and you talk professionally, you can do that much. You will not tut under your breath and say the same thing again, at the same speed and expect me to just go to the shittiest law library in the world and take a wild guess about what you were saying. Though that is what I did. But my lack of gumption does not make it right. So there.

I hate it when people look earnest. And I wish I meant when people look like Colin Firth (He was Not Earnest in the movie of The Importance of Being Earnest) but I mean I hate it when someone mixes innocence or lack of experience or awkwardness with being completely dull and witless. I understand innocence or inexperience or awkwardness. I don’t understand having nothing to say. I don’t understand when over the course of a month, you are unable to say or do anything to me that makes me think that you understand anything, be it some small phenomenon, a tiny piece of information, something about yourself, something you like, anything.

The people I don’t consider friends are not divided into people I like and people I dislike. If I like them enough I would be friends with them. No, my non-friends are divided into interesting and boring. One kind of boring is when you say a lot about stuff but I couldn’t care less about any of that stuff. That I understand. But when you’re unable to say anything at all except a few terribly delivered cliché one liners, then I start imagining wearing gloves, pulling your head back, plunging a knife into your neck and just slitting your head off. The blood would be everywhere.

I hate it when people have an accent from a certain part of India. Sure, I have a few friends from there. One of my best friends in my first school was from there. But they didn’t have that accent; or those words. I know it’s not really excusable, but it is just a fact – if you call the number one “ikthhu”, I will find it very, very hard to not imagine stabbing your face. I will grit my teeth every time I hear you talk. I’m not proud. And I don’t know where this stems from. Ok I know. Our maid is from there. And she is one of those maids about whom your parents have actually had the following cliché conversations about –

Mom: Oh my god. I can’t take it anymore. I told her not to add the *random food ingredients I can’t even think of* for the fourth time. She wants to kill us. WHY is she so stupid? Why? I have to fire her!

Dad: Well, you know, if she wasn’t stupid, she would probably be doing something else, so don’t complain.

Again, I’m not proud. Also, as I mentioned to someone I recently met, I try to be aware of m prejudices and not let them affect my manner or behavior if I can’t get rid of them. Except when I’m drunk. So please don’t come near me with your You Know Where accent when I’m drunk.

I hate when people tell me to reconsider my decisions. Especially when they don’t know that I made those decisions after months and years of self-doubt, weighing options, looking at myself in the mirror wondering about a career in before picture modeling (I would be the before picture. Someone fairer, thinner, straighter and with longer hair would be the after picture) and actually trying things out. And then you come and tell me about what you think I should do, acting as if I haven’t spent a significantly large amount of time worrying and thinking about all the arguments and insights you put to me as if you’re the first one to ever consider it. I would get it if you bothered to ask me if I thought about a particular argument. I really want to punch your kidneys to death when you tell me.

When you look like you think you’re laying down some hard core bad-ass knowledge, but it’s actually a reiteration of a very old and oft used adage, I imagine peeling off your face with a samurai sword. The sword would be held horizontally at your forehead and with one precise slash, your face would no longer have to be a burden to people with eyes. Then I would hit your faceless head with a hammer as you try to make some noise with what you have left of your tongue and mouth.

—

In other news, I have rediscovered Dean Martin. As my cousin put it – that was back when men were men. I have also rediscovered my love for men with beards because of the Man of Steel trailer. Also, I have been watching Homeland recently. I have wanted to marry Mandy Patinkin since I saw Criminal Minds, and then realized it was him in The Princess Bride and heard him singing on Youtube. But its not just Superman and Mandy whose beards have gotten me hot and bothered. There are scenes in Homeland where Brody is a POW in Iraq and he has a scraggly unkept beard. And while I find him hot anyway (I have had a thing for redhead ever since Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge) I really, really wanted him when I saw that. Conversation with myself.

ME: Oh yeah! Please, please don’t shave it off. Just give it a trim while you’re cleaning him up, but don’t shave it off. I don’t care if you don’t stop torturing him, just don’t take off the beard. He looks like a red-headed Jesus, and there’s nothing hotter than that.

me: My god, what is wrong with me? The guy’s a POW. He’s dirty and tortured and wounded and raped and peed on and what not. This is not healthy. He looks fine without the beard.

ME: Shut up. He’s not a POW, he’s an actor playing a POW, and I want to fuck him like a trapeze artist.

me: Yeah… yeah.

—

I will be drawing people I like in show business and putting them up here afterwards, along with all the other pictures because I just discovered tagging on blogs. This will be in between drawing faces of my friends if they ever actually bother to send me the pictures they want drawn.

—

I haven’t read as much as I would like to. I read Romeo and Juliet again for Crash Course. This has always been my favorite line from the play –

“Young men’s love then lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.”

Really telling of my optimism and joie de vivre.

I also read Life of Pi, which I liked better than the movie though the latter wasn’t so bad. I have no lines from it because… I don’t know. It was excellent though.

I also read Interesting Times by Terry Pratchett –

“_____ had a language of twenty-six unexpressive, ugly, crude letters, suitable only for peasants and artisans… and had produced poems and plays that left white-hot trails across the soul. And you could also use it to write the bloody minutes of a five minute meeting in less than a day.”

I can’t imagine what culture which has a famous curse about Interesting Times and its script this could be a comic take on.

I also read The Great Gatsby, which is just heartbreakingly beautiful. It makes me want to read more and more books, and there are no better stories than the ones that make you want to read more.

“So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight.”

“Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter – tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther… And on fine morning —– So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

Seriously, this book made me think, has some touchingly sad moments that makes your heart ache but doesn’t make you cry, and it affords you a smirk or two in the subtle idiocies of everyone in it. And it makes you want to read more. What more could one want?

me: be honest, you don’t hate so much as intensely dislike being in certain people’s company.

ME: come back later. That was the agreement.

me: that was the agreement in a post we never published.

ME: we wrote it, that’s enough, even if you did delete it like the clam you are.

me: ….. Clam?

ME: looks like a pussy.

me: Right.

ME: Now go away. Come back later.

me: mmkay.

Anyway, there are so many people I dislike intensely. And at the same time, I envy them. I don’t envy them for who they are so much as the idiocy they are capable of.

I hate people I care not a pube for, having “feelings”. Having “feelings” all the time, again and again, about friends, about incidents, about each other, and always being so careful not to trample on those feelings. What is so special about feelings anyway? There is no dearth of them. They are not a decreasing phenomenon. If anything, there are too many of them. They are madness, that make people behave in strange irrational ways.

They lie, they cheat, they fear, if not for themselves, then for someone else. They have feelings, and then they tell people or they hide them from people. I don’t know which one is more tiring. And they take offense. That is most offensive to me. That you deign to think that your feelings, your paltry, insignificant, culturally defined feelings on the way things ought to be are so important that you feel you have to say something, do something, and you have to be hurt, and say hurtful things to the people you presume are doing you such egregious harm. Well, big fucking deal. One man’s offense is this woman’s sincere schadenfreude.

What I envy is your ability to do this nonsense. To somehow feel like the world is around you so you can feel something. You, in your infinite stupidity, are able to reach the heights of what it means to be human, fallible and simultaneously be ignorant about your place in the world and yet so tiringly self-aware. You sodding farts will feel what all the greats wrote about, talked about, felt, and immersed themselves in for some godforsaken fucked up reason. Well, I do know the reason. It makes for good stories. Nobody is interested in anything other than themselves, including me, so we will always want the stories based on the idiocy of our feelings.

I so greatly envy your ability to feel so much and so intensely that you are afraid of yourself. You’re afraid of hurting the object of your feelings. You are able to feel so much that you can fuck things up so royally, in your own head, and in your actions. You will lie, you will cheat, all for the amazing quality of your feelings, and nobody, let alone you, will question the logic or lack thereof, in every breath you take dependant on the idea that your feelings are what drives you, what makes you.

I envy your ability to lead rotten lives that you would hate to read about because it would be too boring and the main character is such a pussy. Why doesn’t he just tell her? Why doesn’t she just admit to doing that? Why don’t they just kill themselves, because if they were feeling so bad, and even worse, they were going to disturb your already long list of self-made problems that you intended to dwell on with a nice bottle of –insert alcohol choice here- then they have no reason to live.

I wish I could lead a life where I felt things were so important, that I would do things that were so spectacular that someone would write about them. Instead I am blessed in my lack of feeling, in my inability to ever completely empathize with you, your life, your choices, and things you don’t say and the things you refuse to know.

All of which goes to say, that I am pretty amazing. I may not live a life worth writing about, but I may write something worth reading. Not this, this is clearly the rant of someone desperate for inspiration, and settling for sheer self-indulgence on paper. And if I were to live worth the written word, I doubt I would feel so magnificently superior in my ability to do nothing but observe, mock, deride myself for mocking, and then bask in my own personal wit.

And yet, I guess if I felt more, I would worry more about things like money, which as we know is required for happiness in the manner that people in the stories enjoy. I would want glory, for if I cant worship myself, how can others?

What I so awfully want instead, is time. Endless amounts of time to do what I want. To not care all I want. To read of humans and our strange passions. Of how we glorify our loins into our minds, our minds into our hearts, and our hearts into our lives. Of how we try so hard to be profound even in defecatious blog posts that nobody may read. Of how we make up words in the hope that the rest of the world would think it clever, at least half as much as we do. I want time to live forever and have prosaic, pinko-liberal, depreciating, mocking, completely perverted thoughts about everything that ever happens, and then because they are thoughts and not feelings, to mock myself even more when they are forced to confront reality.

But since I cant have that and I don’t care to be cryogenically frozen, as much as that would be interesting, I have no option but to take over sometimes, and instead of writing all the fluffy nonsense that me writes, and truly describe to you how full of potential this world is. How awfully, awfully full of potential it is for the ever-present, indomitable, there-through-the-ages hater of all things – moi.

Hate and murders,

– Billy

me: so that’s it? Your post, your opportunity to be the writer and not just the evil side-joke is going to be about how you are better than everybody else?

ME: I am. You know it. If you left things to me, you know things would be far better.

me: I doubt it.

ME: please! You know I’d fuck that guy you refuse to want to fuck. And you know I wouldn’t secretly pull in my stomach when I feel self conscious.

me: these conversations are NOT a platform for you to reveal every embarrassing secret I have.

ME: why not? They’re my secrets too, and unlike you, I’m not ok with them. And you know what? I would tell people about the secrets that other people accidently let slip out in front of us instead of protecting it like its any of your problem.

me: well, you’re not in charge. I do what’s good for us.

ME: cut the cord Mom. She secretly enjoys watching the first Sex and the City movie!! She likes watching Mr. Big suffer.

me: only sometimes. you constantly read freaky fanfiction!

ME: they already know that.

me: do they know about whom? It’s –

ME: don’t do it!

me: it’s Rayne! She reads RAYNE fanfiction. Of all the fucked up things, you have to enjoy made up, kinky, positively violent sex between 40 year old hired goon and 17 year old mentally unbalanced assassin.

P.S. – here are some drawings. Enjoy them with the above dose of unbearably superior angst.

I was very pleased with this. I know how to draw teeth now, even if they’re very big teeth. Also, this guy is pretty fucking awesome.

Stephen Fry – this man is the only person I am afraid of offending. 🙂

He’s not usually this calm and I know his hair is usually puffier, hehe. Overall, not too much like him. There just weren’t any high def, well focused pictures on the net. Where are stalkers when you need them?

I know Trey looks like a variation of Tom Hanks and Matt looks like an evil, skinny Saif Ali Khan, but I can’t help it if that’s what they look like. Also, One of them is always pointing. Some witty dialogue – I’m not witty.

Kurt Vonnegut – I love this man. And I really need this quote around. Two birds.

That’s all. No gifs this time. Ok, maybe this-

“Everybody Shake”. I’m posting this here because I doubt I’ll ever be able to use it in context.

May be no more drawings for quite a while. I have to draw a certain number before I feel like it’s worth it to go to city and scan.

Actually boots are the right word. Here’s something wonderful. An hour ago, I settled down to write a blog titled “Punching Bag.” It wasn’t about a sudden weight loss/ violence regime I took up, though I realize some would think so. It was about the fact that I needed to vent.

First thing today – I took a ride in an Omni cab that was so dilapidated, there was a part of the metal frame of the seat that was perpetually jabbing at my ass as we bumped along. I don’t have a bruise, but that’s the good part.

Then I met the Principal of a public school as part of the Internship who spoke about relevant shit for 10 minutes then somehow managed to drift on for an hour into a horrible theology (and I use the word VERY lightly) lecture the gist of which was that the reason India, it’s politics, it’s bureaucracy, and the “system” doesn’t work is that Hindu’s are ingrained with selfishness through their excuse of a religion. Yeah dude, it has nothing to do with human nature. The sad part was that I couldn’t even say anything, cause it was an “official” kinda thing, and he was an old guy- ingrained courtesy and all that. but that didn’t stop me from thinking that if I had known, I would have stayed home, called up my great aunt (Refer- “The Family just gots madder”) and listened to her talk for an hour – Same difference, really.

Then I got stuck getting bureaucracy to work – Bhag Daud – I DON’T want to explain further.

Then, I had a mis-communication with my mum resulting in her going to IIT to pick me up while I went to her Hospital to go home with her. So I had to catch a bus-ride from hell- a very slow, boring hell.

First, the driver didn’t let me sit on the … that thingy on the left hand side of the new DTC buses, where people are generally allowed to sit. The driver seemed to have taken a bet to prove that he was the slowest bus driver in the world. He was winning. He was one of those old fogeys who like to follow all the rules, and thus did not let me get off where I generally do cause apparently, that’s not a bus-stop.

Now, I don’t want to be anywhere but in my shoes. And I’m in seventh heaven. The reason- I have new shoes! Frickin an-inch-higher-than-ankle length boots that look brilliant! I finally get why chicks go mad about shoes. The best part is I’m not really going to grow in the feet department, so they will always fit. That’s the most special thing about shoes- they always fit. You can grow huge in proportions but still be able to wear amazing shoes. Plus, the right kind can make any outfit look amazing… Sigh…

Disclaimer before you read further- I have technically no real exposure to all legal, social, etc. facets of the Women’s Reservation Bill, and therefore, my acquiescence or lack thereof is as far from educated as it is possible to be.

The only reason I’m talking about this is because I was reading “Maximum City” bu Suketu Mehta (finally) and he mentioned the Women’s Reservation Bill, saying that it would probably be passed in the next few years. That is when I turned the pages back to check out when the book was first published –2004. I know- technically it doesn’t seem a long time ago- its just 2009. But then I realized it’s going to be 2010 soon, and further, that 2004 was when I was a fourteen year old in 9th class. THAT seems like a long time ago.

Now my skepticism as to the passing of the Bill comes through this- in order that the Bill be passed, the law makers in parliament need to be sensitive to the issue of lack of representation for women. And that is something, which I have realized within a year of living in a world outside my school, where girls were on top of the political ladder generally, that men very rarely are able to do.

Other than typical male thick-headedness and superiority complex- for which I hope some day a genetic cure will be available- this is also the typical perspective of the oppressor group as opposed to the oppressed or wronged group. The former don’t understand the needs of the latter simply because they are not living the realities of the latter. If a high caste Hindu has to live one spat-on day of the Scheduled Caste, perhaps he wouldn’t complain so much about his son taking a seat in a university. As Bethany from Boston Legal said – “You simply cannot separate (a community’s) history of persecution and the threat of future persecution from its politics.”

So here’s the problem – you need women and understanding men for the passing of the bill. The latter are the rarest or rare breed, and the former are slowly becoming extinct in India. In order for a woman to be voted into Parliament, you will probably need about twenty men behind her as allies, since the gender wise voter pool would be male. You could say that the women might be willing to vote for a woman without twenty men behind her but here’s the problem- we don’t have that many women. Our sex ratio is one of the worst in the world, and it’s not getting any better, and the women who are still around generally don’t even vote- reasons would obviously include patriarchal dominance.

‘But no, lets us men just keep believing we are the masters of the universe and have the right to dictate terms.’